She loved to talk to the air. She knows nothing or nobody was in the space beside or in front of her, but only air; but she still talks. She loves to natter with the air because she was the only child in her family and the adults were at work, or preparing lunch, or washing the clothes, or being busy. They never sit or lie down in daytime—they are always so busy. But the air, or the empty space, could be anyone who would always hear her crying, laughing, thinking, self-talking, grumbling, and sharing.
So nothing is around her but she developed a habit of leaving some space for the air to pretend there was “something” there. She sat in the chair, but she would only sit in the large half of the chair and leave the other side a little space. She lied in bed covered with a heavy quilt in snowy nights—the outside was so cold but the space inside the quilt in bed was warm and comfy—so that she would make some space in the quilt for imagining there were lots of little homeless animals in the warm quilt. “I am opening an animal shelter”, she buried her head into the quilt and said to the warm air inside. “Little duckling, chick, and baby panda, you are safe and warm now! I will protect all of you and all good night.” She whispered and whispered. This would make her feel at ease and accompanied and warm. So many animals were with her and she knew she loved them, those nonexistent poor little animals.
“What did you just say alone? It’s so creepy and don’t do that again!” Mom pushed the door and came in, but nobody answered. Mom found the girl fell into sleep quickly, alone, in a huge empty bed.